


10 Years And Nothing Is New

by xkidiot



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: 10 years in the future, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Irondad, It's vague but it knocked me off my feet to write, Past Character Death, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter but as a dad??, Post-Endgame, Tony Stark Has A Heart, and edit, background mj/petey, my heart is outside of my chest, not a fix-it fic but kind of a fix-it fic, this i.. ss.. . so sad im so dumb for writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 08:31:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19826389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xkidiot/pseuds/xkidiot
Summary: “You think he would’ve liked me, Dad?”The sky above is darkened and inky, save for the glistening droplets of fire that trace across it in mesmerizing patterns. His son would like to learn about the constellations, he thinks. He’d probably be thrilled to find out about what other planets are really like, and what the cosmos looks like from the inside of a spaceship. He’d probably have no dread associated with it, not like Peter does- he’d probably smile adorably, without his two front teeth, and trace lazy circles around the machinery more elegantly than any of his predecessors.His predecessor.





	10 Years And Nothing Is New

He hears it before he can feel it. 

It’s the thunderous footsteps that really set it all off- the way that his son’s small feet trample the creaking wood of the apartment floor without so much as a giggle between each ‘thump’. 

He hears his own bated breath, hiccuping in his chest and stopping him from tinkering with his latest web fluid, tacking into his heart in that unsettlingly familiar way. 

So yeah, Peter _hears_ the ache in his bones before he feels it, with such sweet nausea embracing his tangled hair- it’s much too long, now, MJ always says, he needs to get it cut- anxiety quivering and stiffening the muscles beneath his hoodie. It’s an old one, he thinks. If he focuses too much on the logo that stumbles across its front in bold red lettering, the remnants of a name that stopped hurting and started feeling _numb, numb, numb_ so many years ago- then he just might collapse. 

“Dad, it’s time to go,” insists the jovial voice of his son, and though he’s barely 6, he’s getting tall enough that Peter is scared (excited? Even more nauseous? _God_ , he doesn’t know) that he’ll soon grow to resemble his namesake. Peter turns his gaze from the lab table, twitching his fingers to remind himself that _he’s fine,_ and _he hasn’t faded into a pile of dust-stained clothes that claim, “STARK”, too firmly to be read with a sober tongue_ , and _he’s safe_ , and _web fluid can wait a couple of hours, right?_

“You got it, bud. Where do you wanna go tonight?” He grins to his son, something warm and soft sparking inside his chest at the sight of those big brown eyes, wide beneath tiny rings of curly hair that are lighter than MJ’s, but still darker than his own.

“The tower.” 

  
The little one’s voice is decisive and excited as per usual, their monthly adventures getting more and more anticipated as he grows older. He’s smarter than Peter gives him credit for (though Peter gives him credit for _a lot_ ). The little boy understands exactly what the tower means to his family, and to his lineage. He came from Peter, he knows, but he also thinks, sometimes, that his dad came from the tower’s name the same way that he came from Grandma May. Something to do with big words like “mentoring” and smaller ones like “love”. 

The kid’s main motivator, though, is pure _fun_. 

Peter thinks it’s the thrill of the wind in their hair as his son clings to his chest _(even though they both know he doesn’t need to hug him so tight, because he’s perfectly secured in the little harness that Ned had helped Peter design a few years prior, but if Peter’s learned one thing, it’s that he’ll hug his kid as tightly as he wants him to_ for as long _as he wants him to)._ It could very well be the adrenaline rush that his son gets from spreading his arms wide in his harness (attached unwaveringly to his father’s chest, and frankly, the spidey-suit is a bit too small now that he’s 27 and not 15, But Peter’s never been one for traditional) and hearing his son laugh and pretend that he’s flying while Peter swings them from building to building by his webs is worth it all. 

  
_(He doesn’t have rocket thrusters or the suit of armor, but he’s got this- this tiny, 4-foot piece of living, breathing, love, and though he and MJ became parents young, he thinks he stopped being a kid long before he got the gift of his son. If he really considered it, it was probably around the time he said goodbye to the man who’s tower his son loves to visit along the New York skyline every month.)_

  
He hopes, though, that the most joy is derived from the view. They’re sitting on one of the rooftops a few blocks away from the tower, munching on churros and bumping knees into each other while the sounds and lights of the city sift through the streets below them. Peter ruffles his son’s hair, savoring the starry-eyed curiosity in his gaze and the gears that he just _knows_ are turning like machinery in the little boy’s head. 

“You think he would’ve liked me, Dad?”

The sky above is darkened and inky, save for the glistening droplets of fire that trace across it in mesmerizing patterns. His son would like to learn about the constellations, he thinks. He’d probably be _thrilled_ to find out about what other planets are really like, and what the cosmos looks like from the inside of a spaceship. He’d probably have no dread associated with it, not like Peter does- he’d probably smile adorably, without his two front teeth, and trace lazy circles around the machinery more elegantly than any of his predecessors. His _predecessor_. 

“Yeah,” Peter nods, and his inhale, for the first time in a while, feels like a cleansing breath instead of a suppression of emotion. He turns to his son, who’s already looking up at him with expectant glassy eyes, freckles of cinnamon on his cheeks and a rosy blush dimpling his chin. 

Peter smiles. 

“More than you’ll ever know, Tony.”

  
  



End file.
